


all that we see or seem

by SegaBarrett



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Will Graham Has Encephalitis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:00:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27649904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SegaBarrett/pseuds/SegaBarrett
Summary: Will finds himself in Hannibal's clutches.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29
Collections: Consent Issues Exchange 2020





	all that we see or seem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inquisitor_tohru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inquisitor_tohru/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don't own Hannibal, and I make no money from this. 
> 
> A/N: From "A Dream Within a Dream" by Edgar Allen Poe.

Things had become very confusing for Will Graham in the past few weeks. Life had always been a shade of vibrant technicolor while he felt that others seemed to see the world in black and white, but more recently it had changed to a blinding red that he couldn’t quite get a handle on. It felt as if a strobe light was constantly flashing against his eyes, batting against his pupils and making his bones vibrate, as if the sight had begun to bleed through. 

Maybe it was because Hannibal had come into his life. He seemed to see the colors too, and maybe more, and more importantly than that he seemed to understand and be intrigued by what Will could see. 

Most other people would keep themselves at a distance, especially when they saw the way that Will could be, but Hannibal seemed to want to only be a breath away. Will wasn’t sure what to think about that. What compelled him to bridge that gap between them constantly, to keep them so close even when they were on different sides of a room? To want to orbit him, and to let him encircle him.

He wondered if he could be dangerous to Hannibal in this new state. Before, he had always been able to tell where his own mind ended and the killer’s began, and with some difficulty could even turn it off if he had to. He had worked a long time to get that control, had lived a long time with everyone’s trauma emanating off of them and spiking Will in the heart like Cupid with an arrow, or like Odysseus skewering each suitor.

But now, he no longer knew what was his but even what was real to begin with. The rooms he was in seemed to melt once he entered them, and stags roamed in the midst of press conferences or even shopping trips, providing a gate of antlers to try to step through. Everything that it seemed he could count on was turned on its head and proven over and over again to be wrong or off-kilter.

He could close his eyes in the middle of his bedroom and wake up miles away, wondering where he had wandered.

One day, he apparently wandered to Hannibal Lecter’s house.

***

His fingers ran over a chair, a velvety chair, as he tried to orient to time and place and person. He was in Hannibal’s office, though how he had gotten there was anybody’s guess. He had opened his eyes and, suddenly, there he was, staring Hannibal in the face through what seemed to be bubbles made out of blood.

Maybe he was covered in blood. Maybe someone was dead, or maybe nobody was – it seemed like constantly, someone was always dead, so the question wasn’t who is dead but rather, who had killed them and if it had been Will. If it had been Will inside someone else’s head.

He wished that Hannibal would speak, but the man simply seemed to keep staring at him. Maybe he was waiting for Will to speak, but Will couldn’t find the words at all. His tongue felt wide in his mouth, too big to fit. Maybe he had eaten something he was allergic to? Maybe it was cutting off his breath and maybe he couldn’t…

Hannibal wasn’t speaking, no, but now his hands were moving over Will’s body, patting him down and breathing in his ear.

And then he did speak, of course, because going on without speaking would surely be rude. 

“Hello, Will. You’re here, and I assume that you’re afraid. But there is no need to be. After all, I have everything under control.” His voice seemed to be coming out of the walls, and the floor seemed tilted.

Will wanted to ask what “everything” was, but was afraid to know. So he simply clung to the chair as if it was the only thing grounding him to the Earth, wondering if he was finally losing his grip on reality and wondering if Hannibal would tell him if so.

He would, wouldn’t he? Hannibal had promised that the only thing he wanted to do for Will was to help him. Why did it seem suspicious, now, as Hannibal rang out the name, date, time, and location, assuring Will that he was safe, because he was with Hannibal.

“Sit down in the chair, Will,” Hannibal commanded. His voice was echoing in Will’s mind, bouncing around in his skull, and it was echoing like he was in a steam room.

“I should go home,” Will protested, but Hannibal would hear none of it. Will knew that, and he sat into the chair and felt as it seemed to cling to him. He expected it to open up and pull him downward, trap him in some kind of a cage.

A cage to keep him safe.

“You cannot go home now, Will. That would be rather impolite, perhaps bordering even on rude. You only just arrived here.”

Will had never liked roller coasters very much as a child, but he had ridden a few, and sitting in the chair felt just like having his head locked behind restraints. He didn’t like the feeling. 

“Hannibal.” He tried for firmness, but that was hard to do when the room seemed to be melting into liquid before his eyes.

Suddenly, Hannibal’s hand was on his shoulder. Suddenly, Hannibal’s breath was on his neck. And then his teeth were nibbling on the skin, trailing over it and pulling it into the embrace of Hannibal’s lips.

Will moaned. Was this really happening? He had thought that he was sure, but now he had put it all in doubt again. He wondered if maybe, if Hannibal kept pulling, his skin would come away from his body and Will would cease to be. All the little nerve endings tensed up at that thought, willing Will to stand up and fight.

Fight against what, though? The threat seemed to be of undetermined origin. Maybe the threat was from inside himself.

He slumped a little, and rising seemed completely impossible.

He felt Hannibal picking him up, and he was light as a feather and heavy as an anvil all at once. 

Something was soft, now, wrapping all around him and brushing against his cheek. And Hannibal was there, illuminated in light and cast in shadow all at once.

There seemed to be a shift, in time, and a sensation that made Will feel as if he was plastered on the ceiling, and then pleasure burst through Will’s body.

He pictured lights bursting in his brain and a band starting up before a baseball game.

Hannibal’s hands were all over him. Usually, Will didn’t like being touched, didn’t like the weird intimacy of it and didn’t like the idea that he could get each of those little bursts of whatever darkness lay inside someone else slick on his skin whenever their hands had left like some kind of film that could only be found under a blacklight.

He didn’t feel like that now, though. Hannibal felt like some sort of extension of Will himself and that was, if anything, much scarier because Will had begun to scare himself.

Will was aware, suddenly, that he was covered in sweat. He wondered if he was coming down with the flu, or maybe he had just walked too long – maybe he had walked all the way here, he couldn’t remember – or maybe he was slipping into a steaming bath and he wasn’t even really here. 

Maybe all of this was occurring entirely inside his head. But the way Hannibal nipped at his neck and slid his hand down his chest seemed terribly real. 

It felt like lightning strikes. Will wondered if he should speak up, try to pause it all as it was spinning far too quickly, but he couldn’t find the words, or maybe he didn’t want to.

There was a pressure on his chest – somehow, he came to the conclusion that Hannibal’s lips had surrounded his nipples, but when had they gotten into that position? Even more, why couldn’t he find words to speak about it? He couldn’t moan, or cry out, or protest, feeling frozen to the spot.

That, and the floor seemed to be constantly moving, ready to swallow him up. Ready to swallow them both up. He needed to keep watching the floor.

Will’s lids were heavy, and he wondered if he would fall asleep in the middle of this. He found, surprisingly, that he didn’t want to, especially as Hannibal’s lips started to make their way downward. Will tried to put a finger on when exactly Hannibal had completely undressed him – no doubt his clothes were stacked neatly somewhere in the house, for Hannibal did not appreciate mess – but he couldn’t bring up the memory. 

He found that it didn’t really matter as Hannibal’s lips curled around his cock and Will began to feel his pulse racing, every part of him throbbing, and his body shifting. Shifting, perhaps, into something else? Into Hannibal’s instrument. His instrument of… what? 

Will couldn’t quite finish the thought as he came, white hot, body and brain on fire. 

And then everything went black, and then white-hot white, and then black again.

***

Will stretched out his body and yawned. His fingers felt strained and sore, and as he winced as he clasped them into a fist and then elongated them again, pushing himself upwards so he could sit and gaze around himself. Had he been sleepwalking again? Had someone returned him to Wolf Trap?

The blanket that he pushed off of him was folded too perfectly to be thrown on haphazardly, the way that Will would usually do it when he climbed into bed after a long day at work, and it hadn’t been disturbed by any of the dogs, either.

“Hello?” he called. Maybe it had been Alana who had brought him home, or even Jack. Either of them could still be here. Either of them was the type to stay.

As his bare feet hit the floor, he felt a low ache in his ass that he couldn’t quite associate with a distinct memory, more like a dream.

He looked over at the clock on his bedside; it was only seven o’clock, but he knew he would not get back to bed, so he decided not to bother with it. He felt as if he had slept for days, as if his body had twisted up somehow into some kind of a pretzel and then only released upon waking.

Will stretched his arms and walked to the bathroom, then examined himself in the mirror. There were lines across his face, “worry lines” his mother used to call them. 

Fear lines, perhaps.

He pulled the blind up in the bathroom window so that he could let some more light in. Did his clothes look wrinkled and a little torn, or was it just his perception? 

He pulled his shirt off and looked it over, but it was hard to tell, finding it all in one piece and, it seemed, ironed flat. Unnaturally flat, as if someone else had arranged it and put it on better than it had been.

There were little red marks all over Will’s chest, peppering his nipples. He couldn’t have done that to himself somehow, could he? But it didn’t seem like something Alana would do, either, and ironing his shirt seemed a little much even for her caretaker impulses.

The phone rang, that old landline, and Will jolted in front of the mirror. He turned his head, his breath quickening as he turned his head. 

He walked over to the living room, feeling as if the floor was vibrating. He slowly picked up the phone and held it to his ear, the heaviness of the receiver weighing on him.

“Hello?” Will asked, letting his eyes slip shut slowly. 

“Hello, Will.” Hannibal’s voice echoed in his head, and Will wondered if this was happening now or inside his head. “How are you feeling?”

And the floor opened up again, to swallow Will whole.


End file.
